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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29237109">Meet Me at Midnight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassberry639/pseuds/grassberry639'>grassberry639</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>How to Get Away with Murder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Biphobia, Canon Compliant, College, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, Rivals to Lovers, Romance, Study Date, Studying, moonlit walks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:47:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29237109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassberry639/pseuds/grassberry639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like they have an active relationship outside of college and crime.<br/>—<br/>Michaela’s cramming for her civil law midterm. Laurel has other plans for the night.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Laurel Castillo/Michaela Pratt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>htgawm</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Meet Me at Midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I regard the pending stack of documents on my desk with resigned exhaustion, dragging the thick manila folder at the very top over and slamming three vomit-inducingly vivid baby pink files down in its place. A </span>
  <span>cluster</span>
  <span> of loose sheets breaks free of my daintily arranged pile, scattering across the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I want to scream or cry or punch something in frustration, but I force myself to glance at the clock at the bottom-right corner of my laptop screen instead. Can’t have too much time left until D-Day. It feels like I’ve been slaving away at Annalise’s bullcrap for hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>3:03 am. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guess I’ll just have to finish cramming for my civil law midterm tomorrow morning, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel myself slumping forward onto the desktop, my generally reliable brain and body betraying me to biology. A fail grade. Never actually considered the implications of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> particular outcome before…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Snap out of it, Michaela. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I could just let Connor have this one, I suppose. He’s resourceful. He’ll definitely have something for her by tomorrow. I could sit this one out and it wouldn’t change a damn thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows what I’m capable of. </span>
  <em>
    <span>She</span>
  </em>
  <span> picked me because </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>proved myself to her. It’s not like she’s going to change her mind over </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>case…is it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s not like I haven’t done enough for her. I’ve barely gotten any studying done for our midterm this Friday, and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausted. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She can’t really expect us to throw our lives away for her, can she?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has to understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m startled out of my reverie to find </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> head tucked into the crook of my neck from behind my computer chair, her soft chin gently nuzzling against the nape of my shoulder. “How far are you?” Her cheek brushes against mine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I jerk forward instinctively, flipping my remaining notes over to lean over them protectively. “Laurel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Michaela, hi.” She draws a chair up beside me. “I brought you,” she smiles, pushing a tiny metal flask towards me, “a cappuccino.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I blink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A – what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured I’d bring lattes for the rest of them since I was making the trip anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t have the time for banter, but the question bubbles up my throat and slips out before I can halt myself. “How’d you know?” I croak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really think I wouldn’t know your order after two years of…” she gestures vaguely between us, “this?”</span>
</p><p><span>I balk, nonplussed. Civil conversations have never actually factored into whatever our relationship is - casual affection and impromptu favours most definitely</span> <span>haven’t.</span></p><p>
  <span>“I don’t, actually?” I say out loud. “It’s not like we have an active relationship outside of college and crime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” she mumbles. “You make a compelling point.” Her face immediately breaks into a grin. “I’m not buying into Connor’s Murder Club, though. The two of us were barely accessories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connor wasn’t any more responsible than we were,” I snap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I expect her to snark back, but she just raises her eyebrows and slights her head. “Yeah. I guess he wasn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not really sure how to respond to that, so I screw the flask open to the distinct aroma of freshly blended coffee. “Mm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you’d better savour everything in that flask, darling. That was some pretty damn expensive coffee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d have been fine with a 50 cent brew from across the street.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It cost fifty on discount. I did have to wait an additional twenty minutes for the barista to get all the additional crap you like in your coffee right, though.” She scoffs. “Seriously. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Honey. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And </span>
  <em>
    <span>cinnamon. </span>
  </em>
  <span>With cappuccino.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a sip from the flask. It’s piping hot. “You didn’t have to,” I murmur. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs. “We’re kinda friends, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t meet her in the eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this about the ring?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Laurel’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Michaela, I had to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I raise my hands up. “Didn’t say anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s right. The ring was my only tether to reality that night, even if the engagement itself just wasn’t meant to last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was a little too in denial of my own feelings to sustain that relationship. Aiden’s “experimentation” to me was but the last straw in blowing apart the meticulously crafted lie I’d convinced myself of since day one of my internship with Annalise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She eases herself into the chair next to me. “Come on. You deserve a break.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I roll my eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’re her puppet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Or,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I just concentrate in class.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not my fault I haven’t been the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>focused</span>
  </em>
  <span> lately,” I bite back, narrowing my eyes. “Do you know something the rest of us don’t?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. “For the last time, no. I just don’t view agonising over a text message throughout torts as the most constructive channel for my time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. I appreciate...whatever this is, Laurel, but I really need to study.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tsks. “You might want to reconsider that tone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I slam the flask down and glare at her. “What -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Did someone want an outline?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> no. She can’t be serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laurel, I swear to God -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have all her research ready, too. We could take joint credit, if…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My arm shoots forward before I can exert any sort of control over it. “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She arcs a brow, eyes dancing. “Why don’t we take a brief walk and...talk it over?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look at my desk helplessly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Now?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You planning on sleeping tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stare at her dumbly. She grins coquettishly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I won’t take more than twenty minutes. I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I run my fingers through my hair disconcertedly. “Desperation calls,” I concede.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s predictably chilly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I scoff listlessly. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>insane</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We really </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> have much of a relationship outside murder, huh,” she observes absently. “Pity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I halt. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>dragged</span>
  </em>
  <span> me out here at 3am on an </span>
  <em>
    <span>exam </span>
  </em>
  <span>night to, what, recreate a Ya-Ya sisterhood over selling our souls to the devil,” I spit, glowering at her in disbelief, “all because I don’t want to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>cuddly</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the girl who destroyed my engagement and stopped us from making the </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> rational decision that would’ve saved our asses?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. I didn’t mean that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did I?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harsh.” She bites at her lip, eyes widening incredulously. “But I beg to differ.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your plan had so many loopholes we’d all have been six feet under before the puppy opened his mouth. You weren’t thinking clearly.” She shrugs. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t wreck your engagement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I clench my teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’d take me the entire morning to go over all of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” I heave. “About my engagement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve never had other...partners?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fucking Laurel. “I - whatever.” I force all the contempt I can muster into the sentiment. “I don’t want to talk about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” She hesitates, and then reconsiders before rushing, “I - bisexuality is real, Michaela. I don’t know everything that was going on with the two of you, but...he did love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t know that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I want to punch something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should head back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Michaela -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shiver. “I don’t want to die of frostbite in the middle of exams week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “It wasn’t my place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shrug. “Yeah, well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I gaze up at the moonlit sky. The stars feel like they’re calling to me. It’s cold, but the night is perfect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m exhausted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or -” I pause. “On second thought. A subway does sound good about now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes light up, and my heart flutters a little. Entirely against my will.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What is happening?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a stop a few hundred feet away,” she smiles. “We could walk over, if you want. I’ll quiz you on the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or we could just listen to music.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah. I need to prep,” I retort. “The quizzing sounds good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glances at me and tentatively links her fingers through mine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>———</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
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